


Radio Static

by PepperPrints



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His entire history with STARS is packed away in one little box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radio Static

**Author's Note:**

> For the 30_kisses challenge. Prompt: kHz (kilohertz).

 STARS had been officially disbanded long ago.

 

Chris had hoped it would be different. After the mansion incident, Chris thought STARS could become something better. The entire unit had been nothing but a sick experiment, but together they could turn it around. STARS was meant to be Umbrella's bait, and then it would become their downfall instead.

 

But they weren't given the chance.

 

They tried anyway: Jill, Barry and himself. They separated and searched for Umbrella, and Chris kept his uniform as he did it. He wore it to remember his teammates who were lost, and who he would avenge.

 

Not anymore, though – not since Rockfort Island.

 

Chris intended to pack everything neatly away in one simple box, having tossed everything together onto his bed, but now he was stuck staring at the mess of it. There was his uniform, his badge, his custom gun, his radio, and a knife.

 

Not _his_ knife, but _a_ knife. _His_ knife was with Claire, given to her for protection while he was gone. The other one had been left for Chris, along with the threat was a goading message of victory.

 

He shouldn't have kept it; he knew that, but Chris didn't know what else to do about it.

 

Chris tore his eyes away from the blade, opening the flaps of the box and getting started. He needed to take care of this; it was lingering on his mind and messing with his head. It needed to be done with, and let go. Chris thought it had been right to honor his fallen teammates through STARS, but now it did more harm than good.

 

The first thing he grabbed was his radio, and he wasn't sure why, but he flicked it on. It was strange to think he might pick something up, but it was mostly an unconscious gesture. Everyone in STARS had the same radio set – except for their Captain. Wesker had something else entirely, his headset, and Chris had never thought anything about it. He was the Captain, so he got the better tech. It all made sense at the time, but Chris realized now what that meant – it gave Wesker an advantage over them, it put him above them. Wesker _always_ had power over them.

 

Mood souring, Chris tossed the radio into the box. He picked up his badge next, running his thumb over the polished metal. He remembered what it felt like to first be handed this, how proud he had felt.

 

“ _Point Man?”_

 

“ _You sound concerned. Is there an issue with that level of responsibility?”_

 

“ _No, not at all, sir – I'm just surprised.”_

 

Chris had taken the position as the highest compliment imaginable. He knew Wesker had hand-picked this team himself, and he did it carefully. He hadn't known his Captain very well at that point, but Wesker made a very strong first impression. Chris knew he wasn't easily impressed, and being chosen at all, much less chosen for the highest position available, made Chris swell with confidence. After being discharged from the Air Force, being with STARS felt like having a purpose again, and the badge made it tangible.

 

Now, it just made him feel sick. Chris tossed the badge into the box, not looking at it again.

 

He picked up his gun next, his fingers brushing the emblem on the hilt. It had been his shooting that really won him that spot. He was the best shot in the entire unit – even better than the Captain himself, and that had made an obvious impact.

 

“ _You did great; the boss will love it.”_

 

“ _Jesus, Barry, I don't know – look at the guy. He looks pissed.”_

 

“ _Huh? Oh, that.”_

 

“ _What's so funny?”_

 

“ _That's just because you beat his record.”_

 

Chris removed the clip from the gun and packed it safely away. That day had been the start of him seeing his Captain differently. Wesker was always so high and mighty, putting himself above everyone else, so finally being better than him at something made the man seem so much more real. It was that idea that sparked his first real conversation with Wesker that wasn't strictly about their missions or reports; the first honest bit of casual intimacy between them.

 

Chris had invited Wesker to the range with him. After Chris beat them so many times, his other teammates were poor sports and didn't want to practice with him anymore. Wesker was not all that far behind Chris in his skills, and Chris figured it would actually be an honest challenge for both of them – which both of them could use.

 

“ _No, I think not.”_

 

“ _...huh? Why not?”_

 

“ _I have a lot of work to do, you understand.”_

 

“ _Oh. Right. Okay.”_

 

Except Chris hadn't felt okay. He couldn't tell why, but he felt so put down by the response. It was just training, and Wesker was team captain, so he was understandably busy. Still, it lingered on Chris's mind. He had gone out of his way to try to make a connection and got shot down. It felt like being rejected.

 

That had been the first sign of what was coming over him, and Chris didn't even realize it then. He took it incredibly personally, even if he knew it was ridiculous, and he didn't dare reach out to Wesker again – until Wesker actually came to him, which startled Chris so much that he didn't even respond right away.

 

“ _Well, does the offer still stand or not?”_

 

“ _You wanna go? No joke?”_

 

“ _It would be a very poor one, if so.”_

 

“ _Loser buys the drinks?”_

 

“ _I happen to know you're broke.”_

 

“ _Good thing I don't plan on losing.”_

 

Chris hadn't lost at the range, but he was losing when it came to the drinking part. Chris had lost count of how much he had, and Wesker barely touched his glass at all. It was probably the first time Chris had seen Wesker smile – definitely the first time Chris had seen Wesker smile _at him_ – and he decided he liked that a lot.

 

“ _You're better with a gun, I will admit – but what about your knife?”_

 

“ _Dunno. Haven't trained with it as much.”_

 

“ _Would you like to?”_

 

How could Chris say no? Wesker was usually such a cold, withholding son of a bitch, and now he was opening up, and he was almost being playful about it. Chris had started to realize what was happening, what he was feeling, and Wesker's own subtle responses implied something mutual about it. It had gotten worse from then, and Chris found himself looking at the knife again.

 

Not his knife. Wesker's knife. Chris had used it before, when Wesker taught him new techniques. He showed him how to throw it, coming up behind him and positioning him just right – instructing him with warm breaths against his ear. Wesker had Chris try to attack him, and showed him the flaws in his assault. Disarming him easily, Wesker had turned the blade back and now used it against him, keeping Chris pinned on the floor by the threat of it at his throat. What felt far more dangerous to Chris, however, was the way Wesker was straddling his thighs.

 

Wesker noticed it too, and he was smiling again. Chris's shirt had ridden up in their struggle, exposing a small patch of flesh near his navel, and it caught his Captain's attention. Wesker nudged the fabric up higher, pressing the flat of the blade against Chris's stomach.

 

“ _...ah! That's cold...”_

 

“ _Mmh.”_

 

“ _Wesker...”_

 

Chris shook his head, trying to shake away the thought. He picked up the knife – Wesker's knife – and he intended to pack it too, but he hesitated. He took a moment, closing his eyes and breathing out, before he finally packed it. He could remember the knife sliding under his shirt and slicing upward, the thin material cutting like butter.

 

“ _Oh, Jesus Christ...”_

 

“ _I'll buy you a replacement.”_

 

“ _Shit, you can cut it all up – I don't care – just keep going...”_

 

Then Wesker had laughed, which was even rarer than his smiles. He never really had a full laugh, just soft chuckles under his breath, but they were genuine. The sound had shivered up Chris's spine, and he could remember it with startling clarity, but the kiss was the strongest memory.

 

The kiss had been slow, deep and seeking and almost painfully sensual. Chris opened himself completely, and let Wesker explore his mouth with slick drags of his tongue. Knife set aside and forgotten, Wesker pushed the torn remains of his shirt open, discarding it with little care now that it was ruined.

 

Speaking of... He moved on, picking up his shirt with unsteady hands. He folded it up, dropping it in the box, and then doing the same to his vest and pants. He shouldn't have really cared so much about making them so neat, but it was a force of habit.

 

“ _Take everything off.”_

 

“ _You first.”_

 

Chris closed the box up. Everything was inside, and he was done with it. What now though? He could store it, but that didn't seem like closure; that just seemed like running away. There was nothing to be gained from hiding it. He had to close the book on this. He could trash it all, burn it... anything. He just needed it gone. He needed to put these ghosts to rest.

 

Then he heard something.

 

Chris paused. He didn't believed in ghosts, but there was noise coming from the box.

 

The radio. He had turned the radio on, and forgot to switch it off again.

 

Chris fumbled, nearly knocking the box over entirely in his hurry to get it open again. It had been the first damn thing he packed, and so it was at the very bottom, forcing him to throw out every single thing in his hunt for it.

 

The radio was receiving. It was faint, distorted, but there was definitely someone on the other end of it. Chris scrambled to pick it up, and he pressed the button down.

 

“Hello?” he asked. “10-1. Repeat. Hello?”

 

The response was more static, more broken clicks, and then nothing. Just silence, and Chris felt oddly chilled. He tried again, moving around the room restlessly, as if that would get him a better signal, but there was nothing. Whatever it was, he lost it.

 

Chris turned the radio off, realizing just how ridiculous he was being. He was desperate. He didn't know what he had been hoping to hear, but he was sincerely _so_ desperate that he took stray static on his radio like a sign. He wanted something good to come out of this, for the mess that was STARS to not have been entirely for nothing. He wanted it to mean something. If all that had really been a waste, he didn't know what he would do.

 

Slowly, Chris packed everything up again. He did it steadily this time, not stalled by memories or fear. This couldn't follow him forever, and it was time to let go. Everyone else had already, he knew that, and they were stronger for it. It was time to join them. He'd tape the box up, and he'd have it disposed if, one way or another – as long as it was gone.

 

He only stopped at the very last thing, the knife, and he stared at it. His thumb ran over the emblem at its base, and he hesitated. The rest of it, he boxed up, but not the knife – the knife, he kept, and he didn't bother trying to justify why.

 

_I won this game_ , had been the inscription Wesker left alongside it. Chris guessed that he did, but he lost a lot too.

 

“Chris,” he had said, when faced with Alexia Ashford, and obviously outmatched. “Since you're one of my best men, I'll let you handle this.”

 

You _are_. Not you _were_. Like Chris still belonged to him – but he didn't anymore, and now Wesker was entirely alone.

 

Chris wondered if that bothered him at all – probably not, but if that was true, then why bother in the first place? Why leave his knife, and that message? Why watch Chris and Claire leave, doing nothing to stop them, but making sure that Chris saw his face on last time? He would probably never know, and it didn't matter. It could have meant something, anything, but it was too vague, impossible to define.

 

Like radio static.


End file.
